


of suns and shadows

by BlackJacketsandPens



Category: Final Fantasy XIV
Genre: I can't believe I've done this, M/M, MAJOR 5.3 spoilers, Patch 5.3: Reflections in Crystal Spoilers, TWO FICS FOR ONE WOL/EMET SHIP AND THEN I DO THIS FOR AN ENTIRELY DIFFERENT ONE OF MY WOLS, five point three ruined my life
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-30
Updated: 2020-08-30
Packaged: 2021-03-06 23:47:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 16,424
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26197354
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BlackJacketsandPens/pseuds/BlackJacketsandPens
Summary: All of your flaws and all of my flaws / They lie there hand in hand / Ones we've inherited, ones that we learned / They pass from man to manA Warrior of Light, another hero; this one not quite like the rest. An Ascian, another Paragon; this one not quite like the rest, either. Full of surprises, the both of them, and their pasts haunt them both. Maybe they're not quite so different from each other, in the end.
Relationships: Solus zos Galvus | Emet-Selch/Warrior of Light
Comments: 2
Kudos: 15





	1. thoughts upon meetings

The only thing in Bran’s mind, as they trudged into the darkness of the Crystarium, was that he really needed a godsdamn nap. With the eternal daylight, it was impossible to know how long he’d been awake at this point, and his internal timepiece was probably broken beyond repair by now as it was. Everything felt like it had happened in one long day-- rescuing Minfilia, running off to Il Mheg, literally everything that took place _there_...he’d had long days before, but this one was making a valiant effort to be one of the longest. Probably because of all the faeries driving him utterly mad, really. 

Pixies, fuath-- _ugh_. At least the nu mou were nice enough, and it was tempting to just bury his face in an amaro for a bell and tell the world to piss off (that really did feel like a very Ardbert thing to do, too, which amused him). But the fuath, ugh! And Titania-- well, the old Titania. The one that had done their level best to feed him to their trees. Repeatedly. Ugh. He wanted a _nap_.

But no, apparently the world had other plans.

As the group of them made it to the steps of the Tower, there was a voice behind them. Bran’s first instinct by this point was to let his hand shoot to the hilt of his sword, but then he paused. He didn’t feel any kind of...it didn’t feel like they were about to be attacked. Which was a good thing, but also strange, because whoever was there _did_ feel like a threat. He was good at telling, these days. You didn’t survive very long as a Warrior of Light if you didn’t learn how to pick out a threat...though he had, unfortunately, learned that the hard way.

When he turned around, the man behind them all seemed...strange. Very strange. That was the only word for it. He was obviously Garlean, which made no sense at all, and he seemed ridiculously out of place standing there looking vaguely irritated. He was definitely a threat; there was something the way he spoke that set Bran on edge, but at the same time, it was-- there was something wrong about it, something that just didn’t make any sense. Like he was-- it was that feeling of him being out of place, he thought. It didn’t just extend to his appearance, the whole of him, everything down to that vague sense of being threatening, felt wrong and out of place, and not in a way that made him more nervous. It just made him feel...strangely confused.

And then Urianger pointed out that he looked exactly like the dead emperor, to which the man cheerily agreed -- and the realization hit him like a sack of bricks. Gaius had _said_ there was an Ascian in Garlemald somewhere, Varis had all but confirmed it. And he was right there in front of them. But to have been the godsdamn emperor? Holy shit. That...damn. He actually almost felt bad for Gaius (not Varis, Varis was a complete lunatic who fathered an even worse lunatic; but Gaius had been pretty rational for a Garlean, so it was him who he felt bad for). But the man confirmed it, and even introduced himself.

Emet-Selch. _Ascian_.

And that was it, Bran realized, at least in part. The out of place feeling. He didn’t feel like an Ascian. And he’d met a lot of Ascians. Lahabrea, Igeyorhm, Nabriales, Elidibus, the absolute shit-tonze of lesser, black-masked ones. That one from five years ago, who’d screwed with Y’shtola and then caused Alexander’s summoning. The-- the _thing_ he’d seen five years ago when he’d tried to stop Ifrit and Garuda’s summonings, that looked like when they’d fused only smaller. He’d run into so many of them, and this one, here and now...he didn’t feel like any of them. Not in the slightest.

That was throwing him off, then. He was a threat, that much was blindingly obvious, but he didn’t-- he wasn’t-- well, he wasn’t cackling like an idiot, that was the first thing to notice. Well, alright, Elidibus didn’t cackle. But Elidibus had also made a very concerted effort to stab him in the face last they’d met. And this Emet-Selch wasn’t doing that, either. No ridiculous laughter, no murder attempts, no gloating arrogance and condescension...well, alright, a little condescension. But it didn’t come across the same way. It didn’t make him feel like hauling off and punching him in the face. It just...made him want to _laugh_. It made him think of a theatre performance by a really, really dramatic asshole of an actor. One of those ones that taught themselves to cry and faint on cue, just for the sheer drama of it all. (Didn’t Solus zos Galvus fund Jenomis’ troupe and buy him that ship…? Well, now _that_ made sense.)

Even when he spent the next few minutes bitching at them, it was...there was none of the usual feeling of wary anxiety or wanting to throttle him. ...alright, no, he definitely kind of wanted to throttle him, but not in the same way he’d wanted to strangle Nabriales or any of the others. There was a sense of...amusement there? _Exasperated_ amusement, sure, but there was something...different about him. And you’d think he was well tuned to this kind of thing by now, after getting screwed over so many times in so many ways. But he just didn’t feel like...it didn’t feel like he needed to keep his hand on his sword.

And then he explained his reason for turning up: cooperation. Well, he had to insult Lahabrea first, which made Bran’s lips twitch without really meaning to -- gods, they all just had to keep shitting on the poor guy, didn’t they? Hadn’t Nabriales talked shit about him, too? And Elidibus? He almost felt sorry for him. Well, almost. He wasn’t about to forget Thancred, that was for sure, but at the same time, didn’t it kind of suck to be the one guy your coworkers all made fun of? Well, he was dead now, so he figured it didn’t matter. But all the same…

All the same, Emet-Selch was talking about _cooperation_. Letting them wander about killing the rest of the Lightwardens, even offering to lend them his capabilities. That felt...that was the strangest thing. It didn’t feel like a lie. After the banquet, after Asahi, after everything, he thought he’d know when someone was lying about something like that. So many betrayals and you learn when to see the knife before you turn around. But this wasn’t that, this didn’t feel like that. He sounded sincere. Sounded like he _meant_ it.

And…

 _A war waged without knowledge of the enemy is no war-- it is mere bloodletting_.

Alright, so he had a point there in all the bluster and theatrics, Bran realized. What did they know about the Ascians, really? Nothing besides how to kill them. And sure, he’d killed them pretty well (and was still generally tempted to bounce Urianger’s white auracite off this one’s head just to see what would happen), but...what did they know otherwise? Not a thing. And sure, maybe it didn’t matter. Maybe there was no point. They’d killed more people than Bran thought he knew a number for, rejoined seven worlds and in the process wiped them out entirely. Emet-Selch here had founded _Garlemald_ , and he knew pretty well the fallout of that. Lahabrea had possessed Thancred, and taught gods knew how many beast tribes how to summon primals, if that was all the same guy. Nabriales had gotten Moenbryda killed. Elidibus had given Ilberd the eyes and let him summon Shinryu. And that’s not to mention the fact that there was a ton more of them out there he hadn’t met yet, whose deeds he didn’t know of. Maybe by now there was no meaning in trying to learn more about the enemy. They didn’t seem to care about _them_.

But...ignoring all the blather about seeing eye-to-eye and finding common ground…

Bran was _tired_. Tired, and way too old for this even though he was just barely twenty-one summers. Too young for this? Whatever. He was exhausted. He’d lost too many people to this fight, one that he knew he had no idea the stakes of, not really. Hydaelyn had never told him any kind of shit that mattered when She even bothered to talk to him, and he wasn’t sure anymore how much he really wanted to trust something who did _that_ to Minfilia, who never talked to him except to stress over and over how evil and bad and nasty Zodiark and the Ascians were, who had taken his blessing and by doing that allowing Nabriales to get in and get Moenbryda killed. 

And that led to another thought. If Hydaelyn wasn’t going to tell him anything about the Ascians besides ‘they’re bad, kill them all’...well. Maybe he would just have to get answers elsewhere. If he was going to keep fighting this fight, if he was going to be Her weapon in this war that started before anything else even existed...it was long since time for answers. Maybe he didn’t owe the Ascians any kind of listening ear, and he knew that he doubted he’d ever _see eye-to-eye_ with people who’d killed millions, but he knew one thing.

If for the first time since he saw that damn starshower he was going to get answers, get someone to actually tell him what he was doing this all for…then sure. Sure, he’d hear him out. Didn’t mean he’d suddenly start yelling hail Zodiark or any of that auroch shite.

All he wanted was a reason, finally, for why he was fighting...and maybe, maybe this guy, this Ascian who was nothing like the rest of them, who felt strange and out of place in every way...maybe he’d have it, if no one else did.

And the thought idly occurred to him, as he eyed the slouched shoulders that vanished from view in that swirl of shadow, maybe he wasn’t the only one who was tired of losing people.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Me: oh, yes, emet's special person and the 14th were two different people  
> 5.3: hello naughty writer guess what its SUFFERING TIME  
> Me: ....ah, okay, i see, hey bran you have a boyfriend now 
> 
> In all seriousness, though, I'd thought I could separate That Person from the Fourteenth since I have multiple WoLs, and then...nope. Nope. One line from Emet ('dearest friend', how dare you) and I went OH NO OH NO OH NO and have been doing so nonstop since the patch dropped. And somehow, this ship has clicked so much faster and has such a different vibe from the one with Brona - BRAN has such a different vibe as a character - that I love it all the more.
> 
> As for this one...well, I had to start with the start; his opinions on him upon meeting were important.


	2. the burden of heroism

In the bells that followed since they dragged their arses into the Ocular the next morning to see him standing around there trying to look like he was just another member of the group, their pet Ascian had proven...well, memorable, Bran supposed. And memorable in a way that wasn’t how vividly he recalled Lahabrea cackling like a loon as he summoned Ultima, or Nabriales sneering at them from where he was draped casually in Minfilia’s chair, or Elidibus in Zenos actively trying to kill him.

Sure, some of what he’d said in the Ocular had been...a little uncomfortable, mostly his pointed comment about the burden of truth, whatever that meant -- the implication that he wasn’t going to like what he heard, when he got his answers, maybe? -- but on the other hand, he’d made way too many difficult choices already. What was one more?

Aside from that, though, Emet-Selch had made it a point to be almost hilariously obnoxious from the moment they’d set foot in Rak’tika. From the talk of Garlemald that would probably have made any actor proud with how absolutely purposely overblown it was, to looking dramatically put out at Thancred’s irritated griping and all but rolling his eyes at the suggestion he help fight, and then insulting Lahabrea some more like it was a favorite pastime...and not to mention on top of that the sarcastic complaint that they bored him while they were surrounded by angry natives with bows drawn. As much as Bran hated to admit it -- and oh, did he kind of hate it -- Emet-Selch was at least the _funniest_ Ascian he’d met. In a sort of...ridiculous, flippant, just-didn’t-give-a-shit-anymore kind of way. He could almost understand that. There was a level of tired you got when you just decided to say fuck it and do and say whatever the hell you wanted to whoever you wanted to say it to, damn propriety or manners. He’d edged dangerously close to that a few times, and only refrained by sheer grace of not wanting to get the others in trouble. But this guy seemed to have leapt headfirst into a combination of that and that particular brand of obnoxious lack of giving a shite old people got up to sometimes. It was...funny, he hated to admit. 

Funny, and...really, it was still off-putting, but in that strange sort of nonthreatening, confusing, out of place kind of way. Not that he thought it mattered, in the end. He was just going to pop in and out at random, he supposed, making stupid comments and driving them up the wall. There were worse things an Ascian could do.

But that wasn’t important right now. He wasn’t there, so it wasn’t worth thinking about. There were other things to do. For the most part, that meant continuing to glare daggers at his idiot best friend of a swordsman, who continued to _be_ an idiot about his adoptive daughter (he missed their Minfilia too, you arse, but it didn’t mean you had to be a grouchy brat to a little girl about it) and worry about the Night’s Blessed and hunting down the Lightwarden, wherever it was out here.

The good news was that the tablet the Exarch had sent over was proving useful in getting into the other area of the forest, but the bad news was they didn’t have enough to translate it properly. Which led to another set of good and bad news: Y’shtola knew where to go to get more help with that, and the bad news was that the monument was stuffed right into the back of the crazy extremist cult’s cave system. Which was honestly at this point completely unsurprising to the point that Bran had just sighed heavily and asked what kind of ridiculous plan they’d be using to get in there. This was...just his life, these days. Problem after problem after problem, nothing ever easy or straightforward.

At least this time the solution was kind of hysterical? Bees. Lots of bees. Sacks of bees, to be exact, and he had to admit the shrieking from the cultists was amusing. Maybe it was just how he was at this point, but he just couldn’t bother to feel bad about it anymore. Sorry, you get bees to the face, now get out of the way.

They’d found the mural alright, paintings of heroes ancient and more recent, and while Y’shtola was dealing with the inscriptions, he’d found his gaze fixed on the paintings. And while he watched them, Ardbert appeared. What he said about the paintings...a tribute to heroes of a forgotten time, and then Ronkan heroes, and...and then one of Ardbert and his friends, torn up and damaged after the Flood. _Do you suppose your deeds will warrant an addition to your collection?_ Ardbert had said that, and it...well. He promised Y’shtola he’d follow her out in a minute, not worried about the cultists at all, and then turned his attention back to the wall, to the murals. Heroes of eld...joined by a hero he knew, who was-- was he a hero? Yesterday’s hero was today’s villain, after all. Everyone hated them for what they’d seemingly done. Would his face join theirs? It...after all he’d done…

“Now, what is it up there that you find so fascinating, hero?” 

The voice came from behind him, and even if it was his normal tone of flippant amusement, something about it made Bran bristle. “Call me that one more time and I’ll punch you in the face, _Ascian_ ,” he snapped, not quite wanting to admit that it had stung, somehow, like the teasing nickname had touched a nerve that was raw and painful even now.

There was a long enough silence that Bran had to turn around, and he swore for a moment there was something almost startled and hurt on the Ascian’s face, but then he blinked and it was gone. Instead, eyebrows rose in curious thought, and he canted his head to the side, staring at Bran surely as he was being stared at. “Rather a harsh response, there,” he said lightly. “It leads one to wonder why you’d be so against being called a hero. That _is_ what you are, isn’t it?”

“To everyone else, maybe,” Bran muttered sarcastically, before he could stop himself. Emet-Selch blinked, tilting his head to the other side, and Bran watched him before letting out a breath. You know what, he decided. Screw it. He claimed to want to be honest with them, tell them the truth, then so would he. Let the Ascians know what their hero, their enemy really was. Did they think him a monster in his own right, slaying them left and right in the name of the hated Light? So convinced of his own righteousness he’d never bother to listen to his foes’ side of the story? Well.

“I mean, sure,” he said, bitter and harsh as he laughed. “Ask anyone on the Source. The Alliance leaders, the Domans, the Ala Mhigans, the Ishgardians. They’ll be happy to go on and on about me. Their hero, their champion, their Warrior of Light. Even the Garleans probably would, I guess, more out of fear than anything-- but same difference. They’d all say I was a hero. _Their_ hero. They’d be happy to talk about everything I did for them.” He’d started pacing, at some point, back and forth in front of the murals. “Do I get thanks for it? Sure, when they remember to. Maybe one day I’ll have a painting up somewhere like this, maybe they’ll make a bloody godsdamn statue of me or something. The Warrior of Light, who’s saved Eorzea a bleeding _arseload_ of times. Who’s killed near...what, twenty primals by now? Liberated two nations. Stopped a thousand year war. Took down the better part of three entire Imperial Legions, including their Legatus. No, wait, four, sorry, forgot the VIIth. _Four_ of them. I’m sure the artisans would be falling all over each other to make some kind of monument in my honor one day.”

He snorted, shaking his head, stopping and looking up at Ardbert’s mural. “And then that’ll be all that’s left of me. A monument. My name? What I really looked like, ‘cause damn if they’ll get my face right? What else I was good at? Who I was? Forget all that, it doesn’t matter. None of it matters but that I saved their arses, did everything they couldn’t or wouldn’t do. Who I was, who any of us were, how we felt, none of that matters to them. We’re just _heroes_.” He laughed, still staring up at the mural and the gashes through the old paint. “We’re just heroes to them, until we aren’t, and it’s not up to us when that happens. Nothing’s ever up to us, as soon as we earn that title. _Hero_. You grow up wanting to be one, and then you are, and surprise, it’s just another word for killer. Weapon of Light, that’s all it really is in the end, and when your blade isn't sharp anymore, move on to the next one, and what’s left behind’s just _this_. Paint on stone, or some old rusty statue, and time will eat it all up and it’s gone. If you’re lucky you’ll get stories told about you, though, and then you’ll inspire more kids to run off and do the same damn thing, and on and on it goes, never _bloody_ ending.”

He went silent, breathing hard -- had he started shouting? Whoops. But it didn’t matter, no one was listening. Besides his enemy, at any rate, and maybe he’d said too much, but at this point he didn’t care. It felt good to say it, at least. He loved the Scions, he knew they gave a damn, but that was them. That was just them. And he couldn’t tell _them_ any of this, really. They needed him to be strong, so he would be. It--

He blinked. There was a hand on his shoulder, gloved in white, and he looked and followed it up to Emet-Selch’s face. And his eyes...they looked tired. Just as tired as his own. Exhausted and worn out, and almost, almost understanding. “It never occurred to me,” he admitted, “that you heroes carry quite the burden yourselves. You do so much for so many, inspire hope in those whose lives you touch, yet…it is rather difficult for them to remember that you’re simply another soul just as they are, mm?” 

“Yeah,” Bran muttered, unconsciously leaning into the touch. “Heroes are an entirely different species, far as some people are concerned. They forget you’re a person. They forget...” He trailed off. They forget. That’s...that was all he needed to say, staring up at the murals. They forget. They’d forget him, too, one day. All he’d be was another line in history. The Warrior of Light that took down Nael, Gaius, Zenos. The one that freed Doma and Ala Mhigo. The one that saved Ishgard. His name? Who he was? Who he lost? Gone. Forgotten.

“They forget,” Emet-Selch echoed, something strangely heavy in his voice. “Mortals always forget so very easily, don’t they? A decade, a century, scant years and whatever once was is gone. They forget what came before, forget the lessons learned, forget their heroes and villains both and make the same mistakes. It’s how you all have always been.” He trailed off, and then turned to Bran, something in his eyes that Bran swore he recognized. “It...I never considered that their heroes could feel the same way.”

Bran managed a wry, tired smile. “You were the one that said we could find common ground, you know,” he pointed out. “Here we are, finding it. Probably not what you meant, but…” He shrugged. “Wanted to know what drove the hero of the Source? There you go.” He looked over at him, finding golden eyes with his own. “Shit’s stupid, and I hate it, but someone has to do it. If I don’t, people die. And I’m not going to live with that if I don’t have to. That’s all it is. Nothing noble or brave or true or whatever you said. It’s just because I’m the only one that can, and if I walk away, the only people I still give a damn about die.” He gave Emet-Selch a rueful smile. “Sorry to disappoint.”

There was something in his eyes again, something Bran could almost recognize for a moment. “Oh, trust me, I’m not disappointed,” he said quietly, after a pause. “More...surprised, really.” He went silent, as if there was something else he almost wanted to say, but held back, and then he simply gave Bran’s shoulder a squeeze and stepped away. “Keep on surprising me, hero,” he added. “And we may yet both continue down our little path of understanding.” 

There was silence, then, and Bran had almost decided the Ascian was gone and moved to head to the exit, when something stopped him. “And by the way,” came the man’s voice, floating from behind him. “When I call you hero, take no offense, for I mean none. Do keep that in mind.”

And then he really _was_ gone, and Bran sighed, moving to follow Y’shtola at last. That had been...strange. No stranger than that particular Ascian seemed to be in general, yet...he’d listened to his rant -- one that had felt good to get off his chest, odd as it might seem -- and he’d almost seemed to understand. He’d been...surprised, but not disappointed? What was that supposed to mean? Was he glad to hear what he’d said? And what he’d said about people forgetting...well, it was more mysteries. Maybe he’d get the answers, maybe not, but…

It was nice, he had to admit. The idea that his enemy, of all people, actually understood. Strange, yes, but everything about Emet-Selch was strange. It just...wasn’t unwelcome.

Maybe common ground wouldn’t be so hard to find, after all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bran is a very very tired Warrior of Light.
> 
> Emet did not expect that. After all, given that sunbright soul...he was probably expecting something far, far different. Some _one_ far different.
> 
> But this is what he gets. (And maybe that's not so bad...?)


	3. the weight of lives

On the good news side of things, they’d killed... _he’d_ killed the third Lightwarden. So that was a plus. But...that was about the _only_ plus.

Sure, that had happened, give or take a couple near death dungeon crawling experiences, but then they’d gotten back only to be godsdamn attacked by Eulmore. Eulmore, who had used _sin eaters_.

The attack itself blurred together into fighting and fighting and fighting again, but he wouldn’t-- couldn’t forget the aftermath. The soldiers lying bloody and battered and terrified, crying and shaking in Ostall. The voice from above that made so many tremble and cry harder. The ones dead in front of him, that died in front of him. Another bloody battle with too many deaths, too many broken, and in the end it’s his fault. Oh, sure, he was doing the right thing, but it was still because of him they attacked Lakeland. Because he was killing the Lightwardens. And because they had rallied to protect him, they’d died.

More blood, more death, for him. Because of him. And none of it he could stop. He never could, in the end. He never could.

Everyone was recovering, now, and in a few bells they’d meet up in the Ocular again to discuss their next move, but for now they were all on their own. And Bran had taken himself up to one of the Crystarium watchtowers, looking out over Lakeland, and curled up, face in his knees. He’d be fine when he needed to be fine, that much he knew, but he...he knew better, now, than to just bottle it all up. He’d done that before, and done it all the way until it had broken him. So he’d take this time for himself, now, while he had it, so he could breathe later on when it counted.

He hardly noticed, hardly registered, that anyone else was even there until he heard a shift of cloth and felt a hand on his arm. He froze, then, head shooting up and heart racing, and for a moment he couldn’t at all believe what he was seeing. Emet-Selch. Sitting there beside him with his legs dangling off the side of the tower, a hand on his arm, not looking at him but simply...just there. Present. He opened his mouth as the moment of panic subsided, and found...found he didn’t know what to say.

He hadn’t thought about it, when he’d been told-- hadn’t wanted to dwell on the implications. But now he remembered what the Ascian had told them. About the world before, the one that had almost ended, only for a brave and desperate group of people to call forth the very first primal, one that would save it...only for another group to call another primal, and the battle that ensued split the world. Shattered it to pieces along with that very first primal, and left the few survivors the only ones that ever remembered the world was a different place, once, a better place. Left the few survivors desperate to return to what used to be, that better world, desperate for their home and the people they loved to be whole again.

In a way...in a way, he realized, weren’t the Ascians heroes, too, then? Their people’s heroes. Fighting for their home and their world, just like he was fighting for his. They were all just heroes, puppeted by their primals, made to fight in this war for eons-- but unlike him, they’d been doing this the whole time. He was just the most recent one for Hydaelyn to throw at them, but they’d been...it had been them, since the world was shattered. No wonder they were so tired.

That in mind, Bran decided he didn’t care for propriety anymore, and let himself tip into the Ascian’s side. He was taller by far and warm, and he felt the man stiffen quietly for a brief moment, before the hand on his arm shifted to wrap around his shoulders. It was strangely comforting, and he let it sit in silence. But...eventually, it was Emet-Selch who spoke first.

“As you might be aware by now, I care little for the fates of the lives upon these shards or the battles that end them,” he said quietly. “So long as it serves our purpose, our cause. Yet... _you_ care, hero. You made it quite clear to me that you only fight so that others do not die, and yet, here we sit, here you sit, after another bloodbath.” He tilted his head, and for some reason, Bran knew he was being sincere in all of this. “How do you feel now?”

Bran snorted. “Like shit,” he said. “Always like shit. It’s my fault, and you know that, so don’t pretend not to. My killing the Lightwardens brought this down on them. Just like always.” He looked away, staring into the sunset. _“Woe betide the man who stands opposed to the Weapon of Light, for death will be his reward,”_ he murmured, remembering a boy who said those words not that long ago. _“Woe betide the man who stands with the Weapon of Light, for death will be his reward.”_

“...is that how you see it?” Emet-Selch asked, and again there was something in his voice that could almost be...sympathy. Bewildered sympathy, as if he hadn’t expected to hear any of this, yet couldn't help but feel something for it. 

Bran just snorted. “How can I not?” He asked. “No matter where I go, or what I do, people die. No matter how much I don’t want them to.” He closed his eyes. “Noraxia. Una. Percevains. Satzfloh. A’aba. Aulie. Liavinne. Clive and his sister. Moenbryda. G’raha. Wilred. Haurchefant. Ysayle. Minfilia-- the first one. Papalymo. Meffrid. Gallien. Houdart. Conrad. Tsuyu. All of them dead, and all of them in some way because of me. The Scions that died at the Waking Sands because they were looking for me. Moenbryda, who sacrificed herself to kill Nabriales when I couldn’t do it on my own. G’raha, who-- gods, I don’t know anymore. Wilred, who died because I inspired him to join the Braves, and be a hero. Haurchefant and Ysayle, died protecting me. Papalymo, because of that primal. The Ala Mhigans, maybe not directly, but I helped them and they died anyway. Tsuyu, who could’ve had a better life if Asahi and Elidibus hadn’t driven her to summon a primal-- because, again, of _me_.”

He closed his eyes. “Sure, I fight because I don’t want anyone to die. But they die anyways. They die anyways, so I fight because if I don’t, it was all for nothing. After all the bodies, all the blood I’ve walked through to get this far, if I don’t…if I stop...” He looked at Emet-Selch, who was watching him with something unreadable in his eyes, and then looked away, back towards Ostall. “If I stop, then everyone who’s ever died...they died for nothing at all. So I can’t.”

He went quiet, and then sighed, closing his eyes again and letting a wry smile settle on his lips. “But you get that, don’t you?” He asked softly. “That’s why you can’t, either.”

Silence, long enough that Bran began to think he’d stunned the man into speechlessness, but then he spoke. “Precisely,” he murmured. “All our sacrifices would be for naught, should we cease our attempts to make the world as it should be. Now, more than ever. So we press on, even should all your shards think us evil for it. You’ll thank us, in the end, when you’re whole again. But more than that...all of those who have given their lives...if we were to give up, then they-- we cannot.” He let a rueful smile settle on his own face. “But you understand. Even if your Mother does not.”

“She’s no mother of mine,” Bran muttered, and he felt Emet-Selch startle slightly beside him. “She took Minfilia from us to use as a--a _mouthpiece,_ just snatched her up and hollowed her out and spoke through her face like She thought it would make me _less_ uncomfortable, and then She lied through her teeth the entire damn time, if even a fraction of what you’ve said is the truth. And honestly, I’m inclined to believe _you_. It makes more sense than what _She_ said.” He snorted. “And anyway, if it weren’t for Her, Moenbryda would be alive. Y’know, She hasn’t talked to me at all since that big lie back-- over a year ago now. Not once. Not even now, when if she knew what was good for Her She’d start defending Herself. Not that She ever said anything useful besides ‘kill the Ascians’,” he grumbled. “So no. She’s no mother of mine. I don’t fight for _Her_. I don’t do this because She told me to. Especially not if She’s a damned primal.”

He pauses, and looks at Emet-Selch, something flickering in his eyes. “...I’m not tempered, am I?” He asked bluntly. “You’d know, right?” It didn’t take a genius to figure out the Ascians _were_ , at this point, so.

“...no,” Emet-Selch replied, and he could swear there was relief in that voice. “No, you are not. You are Blessed, yes, by Her grace, but you are not claimed as we are. She is unable to dominate the will of one such as you, after all.” Bran blinked at him, puzzled, but he didn’t clarify that, just looked away. “It is...quite the relief to hear you aren’t so fond of Hydaelyn, really. Gives me more of a chance to talk you around.”

Bran laughed, then, and for the first time the tension and pain in the air seemed to lift slightly. “Keep on telling yourself that,” he said, shoving Emet-Selch lightly. “If it makes you feel better, you can definitely keep pretending you’ll be able to get me to start yelling Hail Zodiark. I won’t stop you.”

“I--” Emet-Selch began, but then burst into startled laughter himself. “You!” He said, amused. “Really? Really? Swallow that sharp tongue, hero!”

“Why?” Bran asked, grinning. “It isn’t fair if you’re allowed and I’m not. It’s not as if I’ve done anything worth making fun of, anyway, _you’re_ the one who let yourself get captured by bunny girls because you were passed out on a tree or something, mister _boredom_. Was that exciting enough for you, or do you want to try getting caught by something with teeth next time? I’m sure that can be arranged.”

Emet-Selch made an affronted noise, pouting visibly, but only for a moment before he laughed again. “Oh, give it time, hero. I’m sure you’ll do something suitably embarrassing I’ll never let you live down,” he teased. “You can’t be the picture of dignity forever!”

“Yeah, yeah, and you like to watch, you said that already,” Bran said, smiling. “Keep watching, Ascian, you won’t crack me that easily.” He scrubbed at his face and stood -- strangely reluctantly, he noticed, already missing the warm weight of someone giving him comfort, even if it _was_ an Ascian -- and let his smile fade slightly. “I’m sorry we have to fight,” he said quietly, sincerely, and it made the other man’s smile vanish. “I am. I don’t want to, not really. But I can’t quit, and you can’t either. We’ve both lost too much already to stop. And for that, I really am sorry.” He smiled tiredly, offering a hand up. “I’d like it if we could work something out so that we can, but I’m not holding out hope. Even so…thanks. For being honest about all this. Even if we can’t work it out...at least I know why you guys fight.” And he really is sorry, that they’re all trapped in this with no way out. He wishes there was another way, but at the same time he knows there isn’t. Not when the Ascians need to kill so many to get their win. If there was any other way to get them their home back...but there isn’t. It’s never that easy.

“...and thank you for listening, hero,” Emet-Selch said quietly, taking the hand in his hand standing, lingering with white-gloved fingers wrapped around Bran’s armored ones for a long, long moment. “Thank you for trying to understand, even should we fail to compromise. I’m glad that I could reach you, even a small amount. Don’t expect me to stop trying, though.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it.” Bran smiled, squeezing the hand on a whim before tugging his hand free and stepping away. “See you in the Ocular later, I’m guessing?”

“You guess right,” the Ascian teased. “Perhaps I’ll have more answers for you, if you ask nicely.” He waved that lazy little wave as he turned and vanished, and Bran smiled faintly. Well...it was good to be understood, it really was. Good to understand. And even if maybe in the end they couldn’t work this out, he almost thought that the fact that they tried--- it could be enough. At least they’d tried. He didn’t want more blood on his hands, but...at least he knew, now, why it would be there. It was one or the other, their world or this one. And...it was just a matter of who wanted it more. Sucked, but...but at least now it made sense.

At least now he knew...the Ascians were just like him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter three, aka "Bran literally wouldn't let me continue the chapter until I made sure I had the names of every single dead named NPC listed, because this is what he does to himself".
> 
> The burden of heroism, now the weight of the lives on their shoulders...truly, they're more alike than they could have ever imagined. Hero, Ascian-- where does the line get drawn? Who decided which side they would be on in this war? What's the difference, in the end?
> 
> And then there's the both of them, coming a lot closer to understanding each other. Even if the boy hero isn't what he was expecting, isn't who he wanted...he's still someone that perhaps he needed to meet all the same. Someone who could possibly...well. He'd have to see.
> 
> (Also featuring 'the 70 DRK quest really really REALLY stuck with Bran' part 1)


	4. the guilt of failures

It was strange, to look at the ghost of a city long gone and know you used to live there. Know this used to be...what the world was like, what the people were like. Kind, gentle, friendly, sweet -- and really, really tall -- people, helpful and community minded. In a city that...really did gleam, sparkle under the water like it was made to be there. Amaurot, just like he’d said. It was...it made Bran sad, but then maybe it was supposed to. Make him stand there in a city lost, among a people lost, and feel...one last chance to make him stop fighting and help instead. One last plea to understand.

He wished he could. He wished he could stop. Now maybe more than ever. Hearing the rest of the story -- it wasn’t just the world broken apart, it was the _people_ , even almost all the Ascians save three, everyone else’s souls torn to pieces and slowly being rebuilt with each rejoining -- and to have listened to him mourn Amaurot, his loved ones and the feeling of community his home once had...it-- he felt terrible, he did. It wasn’t fair. And to top it all off, hearing all of the shades talk...it was like driving the knife in deeper.

Oh, the Convocation, how kind and noble they were, trying to save everyone, they said. Talking about the Emissary, the Speaker...how good they were, how well they led their people...he could barely imagine it. And the Sound that was the cause of it all, the Convocant that stepped down, it ached somewhere he couldn’t even begin to name, something deeply buried that he thought maybe had surfaced with Myste, some unbearable ancient guilt, something that had come and gone as far back as the first time he saw the starshower, and for a moment that same guilt had risen to choke him and was gone as quick as it had come, leaving him bewildered and puzzled and lost, though for only a moment. Now though...now he wonders.

Especially given what that one shade-- Hythlodaeus, that was his name. With what he’d said. The part about Ardbert had felt almost like he’d known it all along, that they were the same soul; obviously, he’d thought. They looked exactly alike! It made sense. No, that part was fine. It was the other part that made him stop. New old friend...perhaps Emet-Selch had seen the hint of _him_ in you. The implication that...that they’d known him. The shade and Emet-Selch both. Who was he? Who had he been? And if Emet-Selch knew, then...was that why he’d been trying so hard? Not just to get a Warrior of Light on his side, but to...to get an _old friend_ on his side. It was almost impossible to say, and soon it would really be. Soon he’d have to kill him, because there was no other choice. And he _hated_ it. But...what else was he supposed to do?

He knew he had to go back to join the others at the Capitol building, yeah, but-- not right away. He knew when he did, after all, they’d go in and face down the Ascian, and fight him, and he’d have to end this one way or another. So-- so maybe it was...well, no, it absolutely was selfish, especially considering the Light that burned within him and threatened to devour him whole and G’raha, who waited to be rescued...but he wanted a few more minutes. To put it off just a little longer.

So here he was, sitting on the too-tall railing next to the Secretariat building, staring into the sea above him and trying to find the sky above that, letting his legs dangle and kick aimlessly. He’d go soon. He would. He just...needed some time to let it all settle. To make his final choice.

So engrossed was he, that once again, he didn’t notice anyone else was there until he felt a weight beside him and heard a quiet chuckle. “You’re rather easy to sneak up on, hero,” Emet-Selch scolded gently. “You should consider working on that.” 

“Shut it,” Bran muttered, shifting slightly to look at him. “I was thinking, and you can teleport.” That said, though, he fell silent and looked away, staring at the city around them. “...I really am sorry,” he said at last. “But I think that's the only thing left to say, isn’t it? I’m sorry. It’s you or me, and I can’t let it be me. Your people or mine...one of us has to lose.” He sighed, tangling his hands in his lap, and went quiet before he couldn’t help himself, and the words burst free. “This is stupid! Why can’t it be-- why _can’t_ it be both?! Why does your stupid plan have to kill so many people, why _can’t_ we just save everyone!?” He kicked his feet more aggressively, letting his heels bounce off the railing. “If you weren’t killing people, I would-- why does _anyone_ have to die, this is so fucking _stupid!”_

There was a moment’s silence, then Emet-Selch barked out a laugh, something almost pained. “You sound like him,” he said quietly. “He...he would have liked to save everyone, too. As many as he could. He tried, even, before the world near ended. Did his best to stop the Sound, before we could give of ourselves to Zodiark. He...would always have wanted the end with the least bloodshed. And so for him, I...tried it, once.” 

Bran blinked. “....because it was me,” he said softly. “You tried because it was what he’d do, because he’s me.” Oh, he thought, and he knew his eyes were wet and stinging now, so he stared hard at his hands. Whoever he’d been had tried to stop them from summoning a primal, sacrificing all those lives, by-- by just running straight at the source, trying to stop it at its root rather than let so many people die, let people he’d probably cared about do something so stupid and reckless, and he’d-- oh, he thought again, and started to laugh, bitter and strained.

“I failed.” He managed after a moment, knowing Emet-Selch was staring at him and not caring. “I-I mean, _he_ failed. We failed. Obviously, it-- he tried to stop it, tried to stop you from-- and you did it. You did it, and then they-- did _that_ , and the world broke. So-- so he failed. He couldn’t do it. He couldn’t---” He started laughing again, burying his face in his hands. “And I still can’t. I _still_ keep failing.” He couldn’t help the tears that burned on his face. “The banquet, Moenbryda, Wilred, Haurchefant, _everyone_ \-- people keep dying. People keep _dying_.”

He thinks again on Myste, on the boy made of his guilt. Did he know? Did he know the full weight of his burden, his sins? Those that sat in the most buried part of his incomplete soul? _Can you even remember why you came here?_ He’d asked. _Can you even remember how many you killed? How many lives shattered, how many stories ended?_ And no. In the end, he couldn’t, because how could he? The first of them happened when he was another person entirely.

“Like sands through the hourglass, everything we fight so desperately to protect slips through our fingers…” He mutters distantly. “And what remains…what remains…is us. Only us, and the memory of our sin.”

 _Forgive me, forgive me, forgive me_. Over and over, it echoed in his soul, only to be put to voice by the boy formed of aether and his guilt and pain -- a creation, like the shades talk of? Maybe it was, maybe they all were, shades just like the ones in this city. Over and over. Forgive me. Forgive me. Trying to put it right, trying to make the world right again. Where no one would grieve or feel sorrow. He understands it now. His first failure, burnt into his being so fiercely that it lingered in him even after he was torn to pieces. That he, Bran...maybe that’s why he wanted to be a hero. To make up for that failure. Help people the same way, so no one else died. And again he failed. Again, and again, and again. Forgive me, forgive me…

He hadn’t realized he’d kept crying, or that his pleas for forgiveness had slipped out of his mouth rather than remain internal, until he felt arms around him, pulling him close and cradling him, carding fingers through his hair softly as he hummed...something, unfamiliar but something that resonated through his soul all the same. “Hush now, hero, don’t cry,” Emet-Selch murmured softly. “Don’t cry. And don’t apologize to me. He did all that he could, as he ever did-- I know that, and have never once held him to account. He fought to his last breath for us all, this I’ve ever known, and all I’ve seen of you has told me that you would, as well.” He fell silent, then, but then made a soft, gentle noise, almost amused. “Come now, hero. I called you here for a reason. Do not let me down. You said it yourself-- we are past the point of common ground, now, and all that remains is to fight.”

He shifted, letting go of Bran to shift him back and away in order to cup his chin in a hand and tilt his face upwards, wiping his tears away with a thumb. “You have all those lives to carry now, hero. Bran. Do not carry ours. That has ever been my duty. _Our_ duty, not yours. It is too heavy for one man.” He smiled faintly. “I daresay it is too heavy for _any_ man, but we have all long ago made our choices. So please, hero. Dry your eyes. There is only one way this ends, and we know it, but please walk to it with your head held high, won’t you? Promise me that much. That when we face one another, we do it with no regrets, for all those lives we carry upon our shoulders. Your world and mine. Promise me, hero. For me.”

Bran blinked at him, swallowing, and then managed a smile. “....do not seek forgiveness, for it will not ease the burden,” he said quietly. “It weighs as it should. Someone said that once, in my voice, not that long ago...maybe I should listen.” He sat back slightly and wiped at his eyes. “I promise, Emet-Selch. You fight for your world, your people, with everything you’ve got, and I’ll do the same for mine. There’s only one way this ends, even if we don’t want it to...but I promise. No regrets. No guilt.”

“That’s more like it,” Emet-Selch said quietly, smiling again as well. “Prove to me your worth, hero, and let it end how it ends. That is all either of us can do. For those we love, those we have lost, and those we seek to save.”

Bran blinked, and then laughed faintly. “For those we have lost, and those we can yet save,” he echoed. “We...really aren’t all that different, after all, huh...”

They watched each other a moment longer, and then Emet-Selch moved, leaning to press a gentle kiss to the scar on Bran’s left temple, brief and soft. “Go on, now. Your companions await, and I must needs make my grand entrance. Steel your soul, my hero, and fight me with all that you have, and all that you are.” He smiled faintly, one last time. “And do not fear failure. For even should you fail, you _tried_. We both tried, with all that we could bring to bear. And whoever wins...still, we tried.”

“Still, we tried,” Bran repeated. He rubbed at the place where the Ascian’s lips had touched, cheeks faintly pink for a moment, and hopped off the railing. “Alright. I’ll remember that. All that I have, and all that I am. For my people, and my home.” And maybe, he thought, as he turns to return to the Capitol. For his, too. Maybe they couldn’t come back, maybe they were long since lost, and maybe wanting to save everyone was fruitless, a idealistic child’s dreams of heroism. But that wasn’t...he’d fight for them, anyway. Because even if it wasn’t _their_ world, wouldn’t the people who gave their lives to save the one they knew...wouldn’t they want the same for this one? For it to be safe, so that no one else has to do what they did?

Right, then. That would be why he fought this fight. For the people he loved, the people who live on this world, and for the people who lived in the one before, who wouldn’t want there to be another tragedy like theirs. And...this time, he wouldn’t fail. Even if it meant the failure of someone who had fought for far longer, who carried so much more...well. He’d carry his burden, too, in the end. _It weighs as it should_.

And in the end, when he was asked to remember...that put a name to his burden. He would remember for Emet-Selch -- for _Hades_ \-- and for the man he once was, the one who tried and failed. So that their tragedy would never happen again. Because...someone had to. And if not him, then who?

After all...he was a hero. And maybe, if he thought the word in Emet-Selch’s voice, soft and kind and so very tired, it didn’t sting quite so much.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Part two of 'the 70 DRK quest really, really stuck with Bran'.... _I’ve sins aplenty, aye, but regrets? Not so much._
> 
> Or at least, guilt. Failing people...that's the real crux of the matter. Failing them, all the way back before Bran was even Bran. Some things are written upon one's soul, etched on it so deeply that no one can ever escape it. And for him, maybe, it's guilt.
> 
> But in the end, all either of them can do is fight with everything they've got for the people and places they love. No matter how little they want it to be one or the other, it has to be. It's come to that.
> 
> At least they understood each other, in the end. At least they knew.


	5. a call answered

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> !!5.3 SPOILERS BELOW!!

From his window in the Pendants, Bran could see the tower, still glowing strong and blue amid the night sky even though its custodian was no longer there. Its tip all but pierced the heavens, scattering the stars around it...ironic, he figured, given who now slept within it. Given what he was. Absently, he reached out from his spot sprawled on the floor, lifting a hand to cup the stars before him. Collecting wayward stars...no, not really. How could he when they’d all gone out of his reach? 

His other hand tightened around what he held, and he tore his gaze from the stars to the object in his grasp-- a bright orange crystal, sitting there in his palm like it belonged. Azem’s crystal. _His_ crystal.

It had been strange, at first, knowing he’d been someone they’d known -- Hythlodaeus’ new old friend, someone who’d been close to Emet-Selch, a _friend,_ or maybe more (definitely more, though it was hard to admit that to himself out of sheer embarrassment)...then to know that he’d tried to _stop_ the Sound that had destroyed everything, that had tried then as he does now to save everyone...and now, and now he knew who he’d been. At least in part. He’d been Azem, the Traveler, the Fourteenth Convocant. Deserter, rebel, traitor... _hero_. The first hero, in a way, a hero who had inspired many, who had helped everyone he could until he’d run off to try and help the entire world. Who had inspired someone to fight to save his people-- and that? That was like a knife to his gut.

What was he supposed to do, realizing that it had been _him_ who had inspired the Emissary to do all that he had done? That Azem had inspired Elidibus, just as Bran had inspired G’raha.

Yeah, it hurt. More than anything else, that had hurt. The fact that he’d killed people who had once been his friends, the fact that he had seen so much of their lives, their home, and what they’d once been, and know he’d been part of that too once. It hurt. But...he knew, in the end, there was nothing he could do. Nabriales and Igeyorhm, all the other sundered, they weren’t those people anymore anyway, and putting them to rest was the kindest thing he could have done. Is the kindest thing he could do.

But Lahabrea, Elidibus, Emet-Selch...he’d carry those regrets to his grave. He’d wiped out the last of a people, after all. The last three heroes of the world before-- killed by his own hand. He’d had no other choice, but still...but still, he had killed them, and wiped out an entire race who had only wanted one more chance to live again.

Except...except. Except during that fight, when he had held that crystal to his chest and cried out, called out as loud and as desperate as he could...someone had answered. Someone who had snapped his fingers in such a familiar way, who had departed with a familiar lazy little wave. He’d come, when Bran had called, so did that mean…did that mean he wasn’t as gone as he’d thought? That maybe, if he tried, if he called again…?

It was to find the answer to his question that he’d come back to the First for the night -- he didn’t want it to be awkward as it would have been if he’d done this in the Stones, after all -- and it was to find the answer to his question that he’d been psyching himself up for the past several bells. But he couldn’t...he had to _try_.

So he took a breath, closing his eyes, and again clutched the crystal close. And this time, he put his voice to the call, too, not just a wild panicked prayer for aid.

 _Hades_ , he called into the aether, into wherever it was the call reached out towards. _Hades, are you there? Hades, please come home. Come home, come home. Can you hear me, are you there? I want you to come home. I need you to come home. Hades, please come back. Please come back._

And so it was, over and over. He didn’t know why it meant so much to him, why he needed this so badly -- maybe he knew that Azem and Hades had been close, close like _that_ even, but he wasn’t Azem, right? -- but it did, it meant something to him, and so as time wore on he kept calling, the voice of his soul rising and wavering as his shoulders shook, begging through his crystal and the call to come home, come home, _come home_.

And finally, when he’d almost begun to give up hope-- he felt the aether in the room shift, and for a brief moment there was something tall there, something huge and bright and shimmering, and then it was smaller, mortal sized, dropping to his knees and peering with vivid green eyes through a simple mask, white hair peeking out from plain hooded robe.

“ _Stars_ , hero,” Hades said, smile crooked and gentle as he reached out for him. “I heard you the first time. What’s so important that you had to-- _oh_ ,” he managed, blinking, as he suddenly registered the tears in Bran’s eyes, streaking down his face, as he threw himself into the ancient’s arms with a cry, nearly knocking him to the floor. 

“Bastard!” Bran choked out through the tears, fingers digging into his robes and face pressed into his shoulder. “You bastard! You survived, you survived and you didn’t-- you just-- you took a nap, didn’t you, you just sat in the bloody Lifestream and took a _nap!_ You lazy _arsehole_ , you--” He broke off with a sob, curling close, and sat there trembling as Hades put hesitant arms around him, pausing for a moment as if making sure it was welcome before he put weight into the embrace, lifting a hand to again card fingers through Bran’s hair.

“...I didn’t think you would miss me this much,” he admitted softly. “So forgive me for oversleeping. I did wake in time to hear your first call, at least, so I’m glad the stars found their way into your hands…but really, this reaction is...”

Bran lifted his head, glaring at him through red, tear-stained eyes. “I thought I killed you,” he got out. “I thought I fucking--- I fucking _killed_ you. And then you were alive, and you-- you just walked away, and I don’t-- you can’t just hand me that crystal and hand everything to me and tell me who I was and then just _leave!”_ He swallowed a sob. “I didn’t tell you you could just make me clean up everything all alone! I didn’t-- I didn’t say you could-- you could make me the murderer of an entire race! I don’t want to have-- I _told_ you I didn’t want-- and Elidibus, he-- he just--” He broke down again, burying his face in Hades’ chest, trembling slightly until he could get his voice under control again.

“I know I promised to remember,” he managed weakly. “But…but Hades, I-- I can’t...I can’t remember _alone_. I can’t _carry this_ alone. Not when it’s my fault. Not when...” He scrubbed valiantly at his face, though it didn’t do much. “I was your friend, once,” he managed at last. “I don’t want to be your _death_ , too.”

Hades watched him quietly, running his hand through Bran’s hair-- this time, though, more shakily. “...my friend,” he repeated quietly, almost hopefully. “Do you…? The memories within Azem’s crystal, did you…?”

“Wh-- _oh_ ,” Bran managed, and choked another weak laughing sob back, staring at anywhere but Hades and eventually down at his hands. “No, I-- no. Just-- echoes, and what you told me, a-and what Hythlodaeus and you said, I...I don’t remember, not _really_. I’m...I’m sorry, Hades. I just wanted you back because-- because I guess I’m being kinda selfish. It’s not…I’m not-- I’m not him. I didn’t...I’m sorry.”

Hades was quiet for a moment, long enough that it made Bran even more reluctant to look up, but then he tugged his hand free, moving to replace them where they’d been on Bran’s face. “Don’t apologize,” he murmured. “And didn’t I tell you already not to cry? Somehow I...I knew it would go that way. That he would never come back to me, no matter what I did. But it’s alright. I know...I see far more clearly now than I did before, and...I couldn’t ask you to be him, hero. Bran. You are who you are, and no matter how much you remind me of him...I couldn’t ask you to be more. I came to your call knowing that, you know. I came for _you,_ none else.” He smiled faintly. “Besides, I’m fond of you just as you are.”

Bran blinked, and then felt his face heat up, quick and bright. “U-Um,” he squeaked, and then shoved Hades hard when he laughed. “Stop it, you! I-I don’t-- I’m not-- I’ve never--” He buried his face in the other man’s shoulder with a whine, flustered and embarrassed, and then softened, shifting to lay against him properly. “...sorry,” he said again. “I know I promised not to have any regrets, but…there are a few.”

Hades just smiled, lifting a hand to run it through Bran’s hair again. “I suppose I couldn’t ask you to have _any,_ ” he admitted. “But...please. I’m here, alright? And...you did free me. So there’s that to be grateful for. Don’t blame yourself for any of that. You...did what you had to, and in the end I’m glad you did.” He leaned quietly into him. “To be able to see the beauty in this world, the potential you all have...the worth in you that I long tried to find, despite my blind hope for our salvation...that gift is well worth the wait.”

“...good,” Bran decided after a moment, absently finding Hades’ free hand to tangle it in his own, watching their entwined fingers. “Long as you think it was worth it, then it’s fine. I...I’m glad I was able to save _someone_.” One thing he didn’t fail, in the end. One thing he could be proud of. That...that’s enough for him, he decided. That he was able to save one of them. Even if he’ll always regret everything to do with Elidibus, Lahabrea, the other unsundered, the last of their race holding so many hopes and dreams...at least he’d been able to save _someone_.

Silence reigned for a while longer, almost companionable, as they sat there together, Bran tucked in Hades’ lap with a hand in his hair, their free hands twined together, and Hades absently humming that old, unfamiliar tune (that he supposed was probably from the days before, something they’d once shared then). Eventually, though, the humming trailed off and Bran realized his eyes had fallen mostly shut, and he peeled one open to look up questioningly at the ancient.

“I was just wondering what you’ve been up to while I was away, hero,” Hades asked easily, a small smile playing at his lips. “Come now, don’t leave us sit here in silence. Regale me with a story of your escapades. I’m sure you have plenty.”

Bran blinked, and then laughed. “Of course you’d ask that,” he said, shaking his head and thinking back to what he’d been told, what he’d heard. The Traveler, he’d been, wandering the length and breadth of the star...gods, the _stories_ he must have had when he came back to Amaurot! Well...it was _Hades_ who’d come home this time, but that wasn’t to say he didn’t have any stories. “Gods, though, where do I even begin? I have stories to spare! You only turned up recently, you’ve got no damn _idea_ the bullshit I’ve had to put up with. Twenty primals! Alien robots! Mhachi--- whatever that shite was! Weird Doman animal spirits! The things I’ve seen...I don’t know what to even start with!”

“That _is_ rather a lot,” Hades teased, eyes alight as he finally tugged his mask off to toss it aside, pushing his hood back to let his white hair loose around his face. “Hmm…wherever you like, I suppose. Whatever you think is the most fun.” He smiled, letting his hand drop to wrap around Bran’s waist. “Though I wouldn’t be averse to hearing how you felt about the _moogles_ …”

 _“...you!”_ Bran howled, shoving at him as Hades cackled in delight. “You bastard, you absolute terror, how dare you! Got that bloody song stuck in my head for weeks, how _could_ you--” He smacked him a few more times for good measure, glared at him for a moment, and then crossed his arms with a huff and a pout. “Arse,” he muttered. “Of _course_ it would be you. I bet anything Lahabrea would have rather set himself on fire than get anywhere near those horrible little furballs.”

“Exactly!” Hades said brightly. “He almost throttled me for it, but it was well worth the effort.” That said, he shifted close again. “Jokes aside, I do want to hear about your adventures, hero,” he said softly, letting his own eyes slip half closed. “Tell me a story.”

“....alright,” Bran said, letting himself lean back into Hades’ chest, looking up at the tower he could still see through the window. When he spoke, then, he wasn’t sure if it was to the man he sat with, or to the soul still perhaps trapped within the crystalline spire, or both. But even so, he began slowly, picking up speed as he continued.

“So, I guess-- oh, yeah, you were-- you were the Emperor, you’d--- you’d know about Jenomis,” he began. “Ran into him in Kugane, him and his kids. That was a hell of an adventure. And honestly pretty amazing, too, considering the faerie tale. That one I know pretty well, even if it isn’t my favorite...so, anyway, I met Alma first…”

He continued on, telling the story, settling into a rhythm as he talked and watching both the tower shine quietly on the two of them, and watching Hades’ eyes shine with warmth and affection and a quiet sort of relief. It...he didn’t know how to feel about those eyes; he’d never even had a crush before, too busy with all his adventures to think about it. But the way he was being looked at, the way he had felt calling him home, the way they sit here now...even not thinking about how _Azem_ must have once felt, it...he didn’t know. But--- but he had time to figure it out, didn’t he? He had time.

And the fact that he _did_...the fact that for once, he hadn’t failed, for once he’d saved someone he’d wanted to save...that was enough, really, for him. That was enough.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you thought I wasn't going to abuse the canon confirmation that Emet's at least Around and the fact that we have a little orange rock with him on speed dial....you're absolutely wrong, I've been waiting for this since SHB dropped. I AM SO VINDICATED, THIS IS ALL I WANTED FROM THE PATCH AND I GOT IT.
> 
> !!!!EDIT!!!! 9/14/20: After a lot of great thought, and writing a lot more of Bran and Emet, I decided it felt more right and more authentic if Bran _didn't_ remember being Azem. It felt better to me, more like it was _Bran_ and Emet, and not just Azem 2.0, y'know? That Hades still loves Bran, even if it really, truly isn't Azem, loves him for himself and chooses to stay for that boy, not any glimpse of Azem, and...and Bran can love Hades back as _himself_ not influenced by memories, choosing to because _he_ wanted to. So, yeah, edited a bit, like this better, this is how the rest of my other stories/oneshots go!


	6. bonus: a date...?

If you asked Bran, it wasn’t a date. It wasn’t going to _be_ a date. There was no shard on which it could ever be a date. Absolutely, positively, no way in all seven hells, was it a date. Not a date, definitely not a date, and not with _him_. Not with Hades. 

It...admittedly, he knew it objectively _looked_ like a date. Taking him to Kugane and buying him dinner and dragging him off to see one of Jenomis’ plays was....kinda datelike. But no. It wasn’t a date. It couldn’t be a date; even if his past self and Hades had been a thing, and it was really clear Hades was fond of _him_ , too-- it wasn’t...he didn’t…

Okay, fine. He didn’t honestly know how he felt. On the one hand, he’d never felt any particular way about anyone like that before; he’d been a kid when he’d set out, and even if he wasn’t a kid anymore, it still...that sort of thing had been the last thing on his mind. And sure, maybe in all -- well, most -- of the faerie tales there were sweeping romances, the hero and their beloved, and maybe he’d daydreamed about that too when he was old enough to figure out what it meant that the characters were kissing, but...he just didn’t know. Would he know? How would he know how he felt if he’d never felt anything like it before? 

But...but then. But then Hades would do something in his relieved, joy-filled almost mania, so delighted and full of pure simple happiness to be alive, to be free and able to see the world for what it was, and it would hit him that it was _cute_ in a way that G’raha’s similar antics weren’t. But then he’d say something and it would make him laugh or smile or roll his eyes fondly, something warm settling in his chest as he’d join in on whatever it was. But then he’d look at him, eyes soft and tired and with something in them Bran couldn’t at all name, and call him _hero_ in a tone of voice reserved just for him, and-- and-- 

Well. Whatever it was, this wasn’t a date. It wasn’t. Nope. Not at all. 

“You know,” Hades said conversationally as they entered the street that held the Kogane Dori markets. “I’ve never actually been here before! I took quite the nap between Solus and the life before that, and in the meantime this whole place just sprung up, and of course I couldn’t come visit while I was occupied…” He strode a few steps ahead, turning to face Bran with a smile on his lips. He was in a vessel, an empty clone body borrowed from the First’s tower now that it was empty and ferried to the Source with a piggybacked Teleport, and he’d made it look like his original face, green eyes and a mess of soft white hair. “Now, though, I’m free to do whatever I like! And it’s lovely here, it really is. Look at it all!” He spun back around to dart over to a stall, eyes alight with curiosity, and Bran just laughed and shook his head as he watched him go back and forth, stall to stall, making fascinated noises over every little thing as if seeing it for the first time. And in a way he was, wasn’t he? Seeing it for the first time. The tempering and his pain had blinded him, but now...now he could really _look_.

“Oh, Bran, look!” He cooed from a stall filled with carved statuettes and other little decorations and tabletop items. “Isn’t this precious?” He held up a figurine, a round little sheep made of some kind of wood, painted with colors that made Bran think of the Steppe. Imported, maybe? “Look at it, it’s adorable!”

“...really?” Bran asked, raising his eyebrows with a tiny grin on his face. “It’s a sheep, Hades. They haven’t suddenly got any more or less cute since the last time you cooed over one.” It’s there, he remembers; not Azem’s but his own, just watching him stare in amazement and delight at the black karakul in Coerthas as they’d headed from Mor Dhona down to Gridania a few days earlier, and not only that, but he remembered what had been said, an offhand comment he’s half sure Hades didn’t recall making, or didn’t think was heard. “Just as round as they always are, y’know,” he teased gently. “They’re not going to suddenly turn _square_.”

Hades blinked, startled as he always seemed to be when Bran would casually bring up something he’d said without expecting it to be remembered, and then smiled the same smile he always did, warm and bright and almost awed. “Of course not,” he said with a laugh. “Round things will always be the cutest possible creatures.” He ran a finger over the statue. “It’s good to see other people agree with me, at least!” He pouted teasingly, but let his attention roam over the rest of the objects at the stall, and then gasped in delight. “Oh, look at this! Look at this, what is it, it’s so cute!”

Bran followed his gaze as he picked it up, and groaned. “No,” he said flatly. “No it isn’t, it’s a namazu, those things are horrible little fish people. They are _not_ cute.” The statue in question was a little porcelain figurine of a namazu, brightly painted, the big-eyed fishman clutching a Doman coin in its stubby arms beneath its bell. “Opposite of cute, Hades, _opposite of cute_.” He rolled his eyes as Hades cooed at it, a smile reluctantly pulling at his lips. “Gods, you have the worst taste. Moogles, namazu…I mean, _really_. You attract terrors”

“ _You_ just don’t know how to have fun anymore,” Hades declared. “They are absolutely precious, and adorable, and yes, completely horrible, but that’s the _point_. You should feel lucky neither I nor Lahabrea managed to make our way over here.” He paused to laugh as Bran looked stricken, and smiled even wider. “I mean, he certainly wouldn’t have done it, but I, on the other hand…” He ducked away from Bran’s swat, grinning wide. “I mean, really, I wonder what kind of song _they_ could have come up with-- ow!” He pouted, rubbing his arm, but the pout faded quickly. “Alright alright, mister no-fun. Have it your way, no silly beast tribe songs.”

“None,” Bran confirmed, though he paused and smiled faintly, digging in his pocket for his coin purse. “But dinky little adorable figurines, those you can have.” He smiled wider at the startled look on Hades’ face, one that softened into something that made him have to quickly look away to hide his pink cheeks. “Shut it.”

“I didn’t say anything,” Hades teased, but he turned away to pick one more thing up off the stall’s shelves. “This too,” he added, placing it with the others. “For you.” It was a small figurine carved of black lacquered wood, painted with gold and red accents-- Bran kind of recognized it as a _komainu_ , like one of the little auspices in Reisen. “If I remember what little I’ve heard from former Domans within the empire, these are guardian spirits. I-- I would rather you have more protection than less, if it’s all the same to you.” He paused. “Or, if you think about it, you yourself are rather a bit like a guardian spirit...”

Bran blushed furiously, but smiled. “Maybe a bit,” he conceded, and paid the shopkeep, letting Hades gather up his gifts and slipping the _komainu_ into his pocket. “Now if you’re done, it’s getting kinda late and we need time to eat before your surprise starts.” (So he might not have mentioned the part about the play, but…it would be a _nice_ surprise.)

“Rush me, why don’t you?” Hades joked gently, nudging him. “There’s still half a market to see, but if your surprise has a time constraint, then I _suppose_ it can wait.” He sighed dramatically, playfully mournful, but then smiled. “Lead on, hero, dinner awaits.” He said, and as they walked back through the market and towards the Bokairo he linked arms with Bran, leaning into him like Bran would see old married couples do sometimes. He turned red, flushing bright with flustered embarrassment, but-- but in the end, he didn’t push him away. Couldn’t. And if his hand found Hades’, then...well, it _still_ wasn’t a date.

When they got to the Bokairo, Bran was gratified to see that Shamoji was still there, still cooking, and that Dellemont’s glowing praise still held true enough that he all but dragged the two of them off to the best seats in the dining area of the inn, right at the counter where he made the sushi and other dishes. Bran had to admit, he’d never been in a restaurant like this; even Shiokaze wasn’t set up this way. The kojin stood behind a long counter almost like a bar’s, with his station on one side and seating on the other, and there was just enough of a partition between the two sides that anyone sitting at the bar could see the chef doing his thing. 

As they ate -- _omakase_ , Shamoji had offered, a chef’s choice kind of thing that probably meant more in Far Eastern culture than Bran could quite grasp, but he could at least appreciate that it was kind of a big deal -- Bran wasn’t sure what he was more fixated on watching, their chef or Hades. On the one hand, he wanted to learn as much as he could any chance he got, and watching Shamoji prepare sushi for them wasn’t exactly an everyday occurrence, especially with how talented he was. But on the other…

On the other, watching _Hades_ was-- the ancient was watching spellbound, eyes wide and lips parted in awe as the kojin’s claws moved way quicker and more deftly than you’d think they could, slicing up fish and shaping rice and rolling--- _makizushi_ , those were the ones rolled up, and _nigirizushi_ were the ones that weren’t. It occurred to Bran all over again that he’d never seen this before, and even if he had, he hadn’t been able to appreciate it--- and why would he, when back then everyone could just snap something like this into existence with a thought? The ancients never had a concept of making things the long way, and tempered they could never really appreciate the beauty of it. But now he was free, and now he could...now he could.

Well, whoever he watched, they still got to eat, and as he’d expected it was all incredible. Growing up in La Noscea, right near Limsa, with his father a fisherman (something else he’d picked up along the way), he’d _never_ thought about eating _raw_ fish. But here it was, and it was nothing like he’d thought it would be. It was amazing; who knew a slice of raw fish on top of rice could be so tasty?

Eventually the meal was over, though -- even dessert, which had been a fancy little plate of cute little cakes made of rice like the stuff at Heavensturn, shaped like flowers and filled with sweet red bean paste -- and Shamoji had shooed them off without making them pay, and Bran grinned at Hades as they left the inn. “Well?” He asked, nudging him. “Fancy enough for you, Your Radiance?”

“Hush up, you!” Hades said with a laugh. “You well know how fond I am of seafood, you clever little brat. And I must say that was-- I’ve never had Far Eastern cuisine before and I have to say, everything I’d heard is true and then some.” He turned to smile at Bran. “More than that, though, Bran, it...I’ve never seen quite a performance like that. I’ve seen _you_ cook, certainly, but that was-- I struggle to form the words.” He looked away, looking up at the evening sky, eyes growing distant in that way they did when he thought of Amaurot. “I doubt we could have conceived of making the process such an art. It’s...something you mortals are better at than we were, isn’t it? To put such effort into each step of your creations, such care. You can’t simply bring anything you like into the world with a thought, and I long thought it all tedious, just crude imitations of our great works, but…”

“But it’s different, looking at it now,” Bran finished, absently finding his hand again. “I mean, sure, we can’t just snap up a five course meal with a wave of our hand, but-- we still create. And it might take a few more bells, a lot more work...but when you try it, you sort of...you understand the work that went into it a lot better, the person who made it. We can’t do the whole...soul thing you can, so-- we do that instead. Share the things we make, the things we put ourselves into making the only way we can.”

Hades smiled again, leaning into the hand around his. “Precisely,” he noted. “Now, where are you taking me for this surp--” He stopped dead, then, as they crossed the bridge and the _Prima Vista_ finally came into view, flying closer to the city to anchor itself and begin to allow guests on. His jaw dropped, and he pulled away to run closer, leaning over the railing of the bridge to get a better look like an excited child. “That’s--- that’s the-- she’s alright, I feared Varis would--” He spun on his heel to look at Bran, who was grinning widely. “You!” He managed, eyes shining. “You-- _this_ is your surprise?!”

“Speaking of performances…” Bran teased. “Yeah. I told you about meeting Jenomis, didn’t I? The whole Ivalice thing? _Obviously_ I was going to bring you to see the show. It’s not like it isn’t pretty well known the emperor bought the Majestic their ship and was their biggest fan, or anything.” He grinned, offering his hand again. “C’mon. I want to say hi to the kids before the show starts, and we should have a reserved spot and everything.”

“Sneaky little---” Hades managed, snatching up Bran’s hand. “A moment first, though, I want to get something for the children, it was a tradition I mean to keep.” Bran snorted, nodding, and they slipped into the market briefly before heading up onto the ship proper.

“Bran!” Alma cried excitedly as they entered, running up to give him a brief hug. “It’s so good to see you! I’m glad you were able to make it, is this your friend you mentioned?” He hugged her back, ruffling her hair, and looked over at Hades.

“Yeah, his name’s Hades,” he said. “He’s as big of a fan of the Zodiac Braves story as I am, and I think he’s seen your troupe before? So when I told him you guys were here, he got so excited I knew I had to bring him by.”

Hades elbowed him gently, smiling. “He exaggerates...slightly, I suppose,” he said. “I _am_ from Ilsabard, though, and I have had the pleasure of seeing your troupe perform before. I was devastated to hear when you had to leave the country, really, and I’m delighted to see you all hale and whole.” He took her hand, giving her a little bow. “I’m very much looking forward to your show now that it’s finished, as Bran’s told me.”

“Thank you,” Alma said politely, only to look startled and smile again when he offered her a little wrapped package, and another for the approaching Ramza. “Oh! What’s this?” 

“A gift,” Hades said easily. “For the both of you. Consider it gratitude in advance for the performance, I suppose, or simply out of gladness that you and yours are all safe and well.”

The two of them chorused their thanks, though Ramza a little less cheerfully, and Alma looked delighted when she opened hers to see a bag full of little sugar crystal candies, all the colors of the rainbow. “Oh, _konpeito!_ I’ve heard of it, but-- thank you very much!” Ramza echoed the repeated thanks again when he opened his package of rice cakes, before turning to look at his sister. 

“Don’t eat all of it before the show, you hear?” he scolded gently. “Else it’ll go to your head.” Alma stuck her tongue out at him a little, but giggled, nodding and tucking it away into her dress.

That said, though, the door swung open from further in the backstage area, and Jenomis entered, taking in the scene with a smile. “First the late Emperor, now you. When will people learn to stop giving my children sweets before they’re to go onstage?” He joked fondly, shaking his head. “In any case, it’s good to meet you. Any friends of Bran are friends of ours.”

“Well, that’s the fun of it,” Hades said warmly. “Spoiling _other_ peoples’ children means you aren’t the one dealing with it later. But in any case, it is a pleasure, Jenomis. I’m very much looking forward to the performance; if even half of what Bran’s told me of your efforts is true, it will truly be your masterpiece.”

“Don’t tell him _that!”_ Ramza protested, smiling slightly. “It’ll go to his head. In any case, come on now, I’ll show you to your seats, and then we’ve got to go get ready.” He took them through the corridors, then, leading them up to a nice box seat with a great view of the stage, and bid them farewell as they settled in.

“So you’ve seen other shows by them?” Bran asked, leaning back in his chair and getting comfortable. “I only ever got to see the one, the private performance they gave me and Cid after we settled everything. Not that I don’t know all the _stories_ , probably, but--” 

“Oh, absolutely!” Hades said brightly, leaning on the side of his chair. “I’ve seen all of their shows. _Stars_ , do they have a repertoire!” He looked wistful. “I doubt they’ll do _Maria and Draco_ again now that Tia’s passed, which is a shame, but...they had a run of _Tale of the Esper_ , always a spectacular show given the scale, and some of the setpieces were just incredible, I _have_ to say. _I Want To Be Your Canary_ was lovely, of course, and they did do _The Princess and the Thief_ once, which was...always one of my favorites.” He sighed, but then perked up again quickly, clearly delighted with the topic. “Then there’s of course _The Onion Knight’s Tale_ \-- based on Allagan legend, did you know? -- and _The Wild Rose Rebellion,_ always fun...ah! And they do a wonderful _Tale of the Paladin_ , Bran, you might ask them to do that one next, isn’t it your favorite?”

Bran lit up at that. “Do they really?! Gods, I’d love to see it-- how do they do Babil?! And-- oh hells, do you think that huge Leviathan prop hanging from the ceiling of the dressing room was for that one? Damn, that would be--” He grinned widely, eyes shining. “I wonder what Alma would say if I told her I’ve met dwarves, _real_ dwarves, like in the story?” He asked. “Though I think maybe the ones in the story aren’t quite mad enough to run their tanks on _ethanol…_ ”

Hades snorted, shaking his head with a huge smile on his face. “I wouldn’t put it past them, honestly, considering,” he said with a laugh. “But shh, shhh, it’s starting!” 

And it did start. The two men leaned forward, eyes bright with excitement and delight as the play began and unfolded, all the familiar beats they knew so well. Ramza and Delita, Orran and Alma, Count Orlandeau and Agrias and Mustadio, Ovelia and the rest...it was like a meeting with an old friend, one well known and well loved. They booed cheerfully at Argath with the rest of the audience, and cheered when the villainous Lucavi Cuchulainn was defeated -- which was even funnier to Bran, now, having defeated a voidsent with that very same name himself -- and even, on occasion, murmured the lines to one another, reciting the verses they’d both heard and read countless times in varying forms. Eventually though they reached the intermission, right in the middle of the story upon the death of Elmdore and the capture of the queen, and Hades leaned back again in his seat with a laugh of pleasure.

“Wonderful!” He said happily. “Those two have become quite the actors! And the boy playing Delita, my _goodness_ , such passion! And Jenomis is no less the writer I remember him, of course, the meshing of the popular story and his true events is seamless!”

“Isn’t it?” Bran asked, grinning at him. “I mean-- fuck, all of the actors are great! Milleuda’s, _damn!_ And Wiegraf too, just--” He sat back himself. _“What troubled sleep have you known, to speak of my dreams? No matter how sweet, a dream left unrealized must fade into day. Only with power can dreams be made real!_ Gods, that scene still gets me. That and Tietra’s death, it’s one thing to read it but to see it acted out---!” He beamed all the wider. 

“Oh, of course,” Hades hummed, absently reaching for Bran’s hand. “Tietra’s death and the duel there with Argath, that’s one of the most powerful scenes in the story. _‘Speak not to me! When Argath falls, my vengeance turns on you, Ramza!’_ \-- and of _course_ all of Argath’s lines, he’s quite the hateable villain, isn’t he?--” He laughed. “I can’t wait for the second act, that’s where things _really_ start getting good. The bit with Marquis Elmdore is-- hello, what’s this?”

Bran blinked, looking over his shoulder to see a familiar face-- the wife of the draumaturge who’d sent him running around on a mad, stupid little quest for wine. He stifled the instinctive groan and roll of his eyes at her, though, focusing instead on the bottle she carried in her hands-- oh, he thought. Huh. “Hello, lovely!” She said brightly, smiling at Bran and winking at Hades. “Heard you were sitting in for a show with a friend, thought I’d surprise you. You did my man and I a few good turns, after all, and we really _do_ owe you for that all. So thought I’d bring you a gift. You did earn it, after all. Cheers, dearie!” She placed the bottle on the little table between the chairs along with two glasses, and with a wiggle of her fingers she flounced off.

“Stars above, hero,” Hades teased, grinning wide at Bran’s blush. “The things you get up to. What, have you gone and done a good turn for everyone in Kugane and their cat? Not at all surprising, of course, all things considered, but---” He focused on the wine bottle, and then blinked. “What is, is _that_. Dalmascan Valens? By your _Twelve_ , that’s expensive! Worth every gil, of course but-- how in the…?”

“I know people who know people, obviously, that’s not new either,” Bran said with a grin of his own. “But--- seriously? You’ve _had_ some?”

Hades snorted. “Dear, I was the Emperor of Garlemald. Of _course_ I’ve had some. Not to mention I did develop _quite_ the taste for the finer things.” He smiled, eyes twinkling at Bran’s pink cheeks and at some joke only he seemed to know, and reached to uncork the bottle and pour glasses. “Now hush, I think intermission is ending. Drink your wine.”

That said, the lights went dim once more, and the second act began. By the time it ended, the bottle was very much empty, and the two men were-- well, Bran was only a little tipsy, he thought, given that Hades had decided to drink most of the bottle himself, but even so, he’d had a few glasses. For all that he was a cook he wasn’t exactly an expert on wines, but he would assume it was a good one, at least. Enough he’d had two or three glasses. Four? Ah, it didn’t matter, Hades was much more drunk than he was, and it was _hilarious_.

“Gods, I can’t believe you’re a lightweight,” he teased as he led him down to the stage level to see if the Lexentales were there. “Really, it was just _wine_ , Hades, c’mon. Try not to fall face first into the seats?”

Hades pouted, face flushed with drink, and swatted lazily at him. “Hush!” He said, grinning wide. “Stars that was-- it was-- it _was!_ The final act, did you see it? The props, the effects, the makeup on Ultima!” He hummed in delight. “Perfect!” He paused, though, wiggling a finger at Bran’s grinning face. “An’-- an’ besides, I’m not-- I wasn’t born in La Noscea, you-- you _La Noscean_. This vessel’s blood’s not made of ale or whatsit.”

“Ale or whatsit,” Bran echoed, amused. “Alright, you need a nap, you’ve gone nonsensical. Let’s just say our goodbyes and-- ack!” He yelped, then, when Hades put on a burst of speed, grabbing him by the wrist and tugging him to the stage, letting go just to climb up on it and grin at him, pulling him up. “What are you _doing_ , you drunk idiot?” He managed, laughing in fond exasperation. “Come on, let’s get down.”

“No!” Hades said triumphantly. “Our turn! You-- g’wan, you know the words of it. You be Cecil. How’s it...how’s it...ah! Right!” He grinned teasingly, even as Bran turned red from ear to ear, and danced just out of reach, putting a hand to his chest. _“Forsake the darkness you once embraced, or the light will find no hold,”_ he intoned the line dramatically, though the effect was slightly ruined by his giggles. _“Vanquish the dark knight! You and he are one no more!”_

Bran stifled a snort, rolling his eyes, but went along with it, miming unsheathing a sword and pointing it at Hades. _“Stay back. This if a fight for me and me alone. My atonement for all_

 _the sins I've wrought - my test. And one I do not mean to fail!”_ He broke off, unable to continue the scene for his giggles. “You really aren’t exactly the best fit for Kluya, but--” He tried, but fell back into giggles. Okay, maybe he was more tipsy than he thought…

“True!” Hades chirped. “I’m more meant for a _villain’s_ role, lately! Hmmm…how did it go again, from-- from _Princess an’ the Thief_ …?” He grinned, throwing his arms out theatrically. _“Peace is but a shadow of death, desperate to forget its painful past…though we hope for promising years, after shedding a thousand tears, yesterday's sorrow constantly nears. And while the moon still shines blue, by dawn, it will turn to scarlet hue.”_

Bran stifled another wheezing giggle. “I-- _gods_ , don’t quote him, then I’ll have to picture you in his costume!” He whined, giggling again to hide his pink cheeks. “ _I just wanna protect the people I'm with. Doesn't matter whether I can or not. It's what I believe in_. S’a good story, isn’t it? They all are. They’re why I ended up here.”

“Are they?” Hades asked, blinking as he moved over to smile at him, taking his hands. “Well, then y’should thank them. The stories. Th’ heroes that came before. I would. They’re what made sure I ended up here with you tonight. ‘Cause if it weren’t for you...a lot of things would still be a lot worse. I’d still be lost, an’ so would...” He couldn’t say it, not now, but Bran knew who he meant, and he squeezed Hades’ hands.

“Yeah,” he said quietly. “It’s been a hells of a ride, but...I’m here, and so are you. Bit worse for wear, but...hey, the stories always have their ups and downs, too.” He smiled a little. “Isn’t over yet, either, so don’t go closin’ the book just yet. I have a few more adventures left in me.”

“Didn’t doubt that for a moment!” Hades said, smiling once more. “You’re still young yet, you’ve got a whole lot more time to write more of your story, my hero,” he teased. “And I’m lucky to be here to watch it.” He paused, tilting his head, mischief sparkling in his eyes. “While we’re still here…” He said. “How’d it go again, th’ song--?” 

“No!” Bran howled, pushing Hades at the edge of the stage even as he started singing offkey, the sappy song from _Maria and Draco_. “No, stop it, stop, shut up, quit it!” His face was crimson and he managed to shove him half out the door before he trailed off into giggles and then into a jaw-cracking yawn. “Yeah, you better yawn,” he muttered, catching sight of Jenomis heading their way. “You start singing the moogle song, you’re _swimming_ back to Eorzea.”

Hades giggled, muttering a sleepy _‘I can teleport, you know,’_ before leaning heavily against him as the playwright stopped to smile at them. “So, did you and your friend enjoy the show, Bran?”

“Of course we did,” Bran replied, elbowing Hades gently. “He loved it. I mean, we both did, obviously. It was just as good the second time, Jenomis. I can’t wait to see your other stuff, too. He said you did _Tale of the Paladin_ once?”

Jenomis smiled. “We did indeed. Is that your favorite story? Well, we’ll see what we have time for once we finish our run of this one.” Bran beamed at that, and Jenomis bowed slightly. “I see your friend is falling asleep on you, though, so I’ll let you two make your way home. Take care, Bran. It was good to see you again-- tell Cid to take care of himself, too, next you see him?”

“If he’ll bother to listen,” Bran griped, but grinned and nodded. “I will. See you around.” 

That said, he took hold of the now severely drooping Hades and teleported back into Ishgard -- while Hades was with him, he’d rented out the room in the Forgotten Knight that was by now all but reserved as his thanks to how many times he’d stayed there, considering how awkward it would be to take him by the Stones -- heading back to the inn and dropping the man on the bed, sitting on the edge of it to take off his boots. That done, he sat back, staring out at the winter night’s sky, and almost didn’t notice Hades shifting until the man’s arms were around his waist. 

“...what are you doing?” He managed after a moment, cheeks pink for what felt like the dozenth time this evening.

“Goin’ to sleep,” Hades mumbled. “Only one bed, hero…”

“...I was. Going to get another room…?” Bran tried, cheeks darkening from pink to crimson, knowing the excuse was flimsy-- really, he’d just entirely forgotten there _was_ only one bed, and two of them. He was so used to going it alone…

“Liar,” Hades hummed. “Now c’mere. Sleep.”

Bran blinked at him, and then sighed, pulling his legs up and climbing onto the bed fully, letting Hades drag him so that they were lying beside each other face to face, where the ancient wrapped his arms around his waist again, tucking his head into Bran’s shoulder. “Good night, hero,” he said softly, eyes fluttering shut. Bran lay there staring at him as his breathing evened and he dozed off, frozen and still blushing furiously, and then sighed once more, slowly forcing himself to relax. It wasn’t as hard as he’d thought it would be, and he shifted closer despite himself, getting comfortable and tugging the blanket up around them. 

“...good night, Hades,” he said quietly, and let his head rest against the other man’s, letting his own eyes fall shut. 

….alright, he thought resignedly as he slipped into sleep, so maybe it _had_ been a date.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Listen. Listen.
> 
> The idea of taking Hades to see the play on the Prima Vista means so much to me-- of course I'd rewrite the idea for him and Bran! It went very differently, in the details, and the attitude and atmosphere makes all the difference, and it's just so precious.
> 
> Look at these dorks. Look at them.
> 
> !!!EDIT!!! 9/14/20: Edited a bit of this chapter to match the updates to chapter 5, in which Bran no longer has Azem's memories.


End file.
